


Services Rendered

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Moriarty Made Them Do It, PWP, bastard!Sherlock, dub-con, kink_bingo: consent play, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty made them do it.  (Well, sort of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Services Rendered

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to L and FF for their excellent beta work.
> 
> Thanks also to K for the cheerleading.
> 
> \---------------
> 
> Please do heed the warning on this fic, and avoid if it's not your cuppa. (And if it is your cuppa, please enjoy!) Obvs, this is a fantasy id-fic type thing, and I do not condone stuff like this happening In Real Life.
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________  
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________

“John,” said Sherlock, his voice low and intent, “if we’re to get out of this, I need to you to do whatever Moriarty asks.”

John blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you must do whatever he asks of you.”

John thought that he would never get used to how absolutely calm Sherlock could sound when their lives were in imminent danger. Years of experience on the battlefield had taught John not to panic; he could keep his nerves at least somewhat steady in a crisis, but Sherlock—Sherlock gave absolutely no sign that they’d just been kidnapped, and locked in an almost empty room by the greatest criminal mastermind of their generation. 

And now Sherlock, with that perfect calm, was telling John to do Moriarty’s bidding, as though Moriarty was no more harmful than Mrs Hudson.

“Sherlock.” John tried to use his ‘reasonable’ voice. “That’s ridiculous. What if he asks—”

“He needs us both whole and intact at the end of this. Physically, both of us are safe.”

“Then what—”

“It’s better if I don’t tell you yet. If your actions are hampered by knowledge, our chance for escape will be lost.”

“All right, all right.” John clenched his fists, but he agreed anyway, because somehow, Sherlock always did have some sort of plan that managed to work; as usual, John’s flame of admiration for the man tempered his desire to throw something—not that there was anything he _could_ throw. The one item in the room was an LCD screen mounted on the wall opposite the armoured sliding door—and that screen was firmly bolted to in place.

“Remember, John. Whatever he tells you. Just—”

Sherlock broke off as the LCD screen flickered to life. At first, it was only white, and then text appeared on the screen.

**Hello, John.**

John swallowed, and looked sidelong at Sherlock. “Why is he saying hello to me and not you?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Sherlock replied.

**Be a good boy, John. Say hello back.**

“Uh...hello.”

**That’s better.**

John exhaled. “Okay.”

**Sherlock’s being a good boy too, isn’t he? Using that big, intelligent brain of his to save your life. Don’t you think you should say thank you?**

“Er—thank you, Sherlock.” John’s eyes flickered towards Sherlock, but Sherlock just kept staring straight ahead.

**Now, now, John, that wasn’t very good, was it? I’m sure you can do better than that.**

“ _Thank_ you, Sherlock.”

**You need to show him, John. I know! How about you give him a kiss?**

“What!?”

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him sharply. “Just do it, John.”

“How is this going to save us? That’s ridiculous.”

A tiny red dot appeared on Sherlock’s forehead. **I really think you should do what I say.**

“It’s okay, John,” said Sherlock.

John tried to breathe deeply, but something caught in his throat. Trying not to think too hard, he leaned forward, touching his lips to Sherlock’s for what must have been less than half a second.

**That wasn’t very good, John. You need to give him a proper kiss.**

A proper kiss. Right. For some reason, John’s skin started breaking out into goosebumps. What did a proper kiss look like?

John raised a hand to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock met his gaze and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. John leaned in again, and this time, when he pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, he let them linger. Sherlock had soft lips, John realised. Very soft, and very warm, and pressing back against him, kissing him back.

John pulled away slowly this time, and when he opened his eyes (when had they closed?), he saw that Sherlock was wearing one of those deeply speculative expressions that he usually reserved for his more interesting specimens.

**Do it again.**

He leaned in towards Sherlock again, and was almost surprised when Sherlock met him half way. Sherlock’s hand found its way to the back of John’s head, and his mouth was just as soft as it had been before. Without even thinking about it, John allowed his tongue to dart forward, to tease at Sherlock’s lips, and _oh god_ , Sherlock seemed to like that, because Sherlock moaned, he actually _moaned_ , and John had kissed enough people to know that he wasn’t doing it because he disliked what was happening. The sound seemed to vibrate right through John’s mouth and down his spine, and _god_ , John could feel the blood rushing to his cock, and this was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, because he wasn’t gay; a couple of blow jobs in the army didn’t count, and besides, this was _Sherlock_ , and Sherlock didn’t—

Except, by the way that Sherlock was gripping at John’s hair, by the way that he was moving in closer to John, evidently, Sherlock _did_.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ this was all too much. Sherlock’s mouth, his breath, his _hands_ —

John broke away. 

Surely, that must have satisfied Moriarty, in whatever sick little game he was playing here. One of Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s shoulder, and his fingers curled around the fabric of John’s shirt. And Sherlock’s breathing—Christ, he was out of breath.

Not that John was any better.

**Well, well, boys, it looked like you enjoyed that quite a bit. Did you enjoy it, John?**

“You—you—” _You bastard_ , John thought, but the words stuck in his throat.

**Tell me, John.**

“Yes,” John managed to croak. “Yes, I bloody well enjoyed it, okay.” And _fuck_ , it was true too. He could still feel where Sherlock’s mouth had been and somehow, in defiance of everything that had ever made sense to him, he wanted to do it again.

Sherlock shifted beside him, and John carefully avoided his eyes.

**I’m soooo glad. Because you’re going to have to do more, you know.**

“Uh—right.” John wished that his voiced hadn’t almost _squeaked_ just then.

**Next time you kiss him, I want you to touch his cock. And no cheating, now. I want your hand inside his pants.**

He risked a glance in Sherlock’s direction. John could only imagine the expression of alarm on his own face—he probably looked like a bloody rabbit about to meet its fate beneath the wheels of a car. But Sherlock—bloody Sherlock, he still looked _calm_. Oh, his breathing wasn’t quite back to normal yet, but he didn’t seem to be bothered at all. 

In fact, Sherlock actually smiled. Not a big smile, just a little twitch of his lips, it was still a _smile_. “This should be interesting,” he murmured.

And that was just like Sherlock wasn’t it? To have something like this happen, and to treat it all as a big experiment. It was infuriating, and John wanted to punch him, and—

John’s hands were making fists in Sherlock’s hair before he knew what he was doing; he was pulling hard enough that it had to hurt, but Sherlock didn’t voice any protest; there was only that moan as John pressed their mouths together again, almost as though he was attacking him. Somehow, they weren’t sitting anymore; Sherlock was lying with his back against the floor, and John was half on top of him, one of his legs hooked around both of Sherlock’s, and _god_ they were grinding against each other like they were bloody teenagers.

Something flickered in the corner of his vision, and John had just enough wits left to him that he was able to read the new message on the screen:

**Hurry up, John.**

Right. Right. Sherlock’s cock.

John disentangled one of his hands from Sherlock’s hair, and not wasting any more time, placed it, palm flat, against the front of Sherlock’s trousers, and _holy fuck_ , Sherlock was _hard_. Not semi-erect or mostly erect, but so fucking hard that he must have been almost ready to burst. And the sound that Sherlock was making now, as he thrust himself against John’s palm, _god_ , he never would have believed that Sherlock Holmes could make a sound like that, and he was making it for _John_ , of all people.

John fumbled with Sherlock’s zipper, with the button at the top of his fly, and then his trousers were open, and John’s hand was in his pants, closing around the fiery heat of Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock gasped, actually _gasped_ at the touch, and John thought that Sherlock couldn’t be far away from coming. John teased as his foreskin with every long, firm stroke, he picked up his speed, and—

Suddenly he was on his back, their positions reversed. Sherlock leaned over him, and John could see that somehow, somehow, Sherlock had managed to pull himself back from the brink, but he looked hungry too, hungry like when he was presented with a particularly puzzling case, and this case was John, and Sherlock was going _solve_ him.

Sherlock kissed him again, and it would have been gentle if it hadn’t been for the iron grip of Sherlock’s hand on his bicep. Or his other hand, which was working at John’s belt, and his flies, and _oh god, oh god, oh god_ , Sherlock’s hand was on his cock now, and bloody hell, he must have research this, studied it online or something, because he knew _exactly_ what to do; every stroke, every squeeze was absolutely perfect.

John forced one of his own hands between them, and twining that hand with Sherlock’s, he pressed both their cocks together, and, fuck, _fuck_ —

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” breathed John.

Sherlock bit down on his shoulder in response, and then— “We need to take our clothes off.”

“Yes,” John agreed, moments before realising that the words on the screen had changed:

**Take your clothes off.**

His fingers grappled with Sherlock’s shirt; he didn’t care if he tore buttons away. He needed to get at Sherlock’s skin, to rub his fingers over the contours of his chest, across his stomach, over the small trail of hair that led down to his cock. He needed his mouth on Sherlock’s skin, on his chest; he needed the way that Sherlock cried out a little when John grazed his teeth across Sherlock’s nipples.

And Sherlock—Sherlock seemed to need John too, pulling John’s jumper over his head, discarding his shirt, and then somehow, working off their trousers and their pants, in spite of their tangled limbs. Sherlock straddled his hips, then leaned down, aligning their cocks, their torsos, their mouths. Sherlock kissed him fiercely, and John bucked up against him as hard as he could; he didn’t care _why_ they were doing this anymore; he’d never wanted to come more badly in his life, but _oh god_ he didn’t want this to end.

The screen flickered again, and John was almost scared to look, because what if Moriarty told them to stop, what if that was his game, to get them like this, then not let them finish? That would be unbearable, and John didn’t know if he could stop now.

**Fuck him, John.**

For a moment, John couldn’t breathe. Sherlock went completely still on top of him, and they stared at each other, really _looked_ at each other for the first time since all this had started.

“Sherlock,” said John, barely able to get the words out, “is that what you want?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Sherlock, his voice thick and heavy and fierce. “Yes.”

“Thank god.” John exhaled, and he would have felt relief, except that he was kissing Sherlock again, and the urgency building in his cock left no room for relief.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, freeing John, allowing him to sit up, and then Sherlock was on his knees, leaning forward onto his elbows, and John was positioning himself between Sherlock’s legs.

John spat into his hand, hoping that that would do for lube; he sure as hell didn’t have anything else he could use. He allowed his fingers to brush across Sherlock’s hole, which was already slick with sweat, before pressing one, and then two inside him. He leaned down to brush his lips across Sherlock’s tailbone; he curled his fingers, and let his tongue trace its way up Sherlock’s spine. He felt Sherlock shudder, and John knew that he couldn’t wait much longer.

“Sherlock,” he moaned, “I need—”

“Do it,” said Sherlock. “Please, John.”

 **Please, John. Do it, do it, do it.**

As though Moriarty’s instructions were relevant anymore. It wouldn’t matter if he’d told them to grow wings and fly to Africa, John would still be here, aligning himself up against Sherlock, pressing forward _into_ Sherlock, and _fuck, fuck, fuck_ the heat of Sherlock’s body tight around his cock was so overpowering that it was only sheer force of willpower that stopped John from coming right then.

John paused and forced himself to focus. Sherlock’s entire body trembled, and his breathing was shallow and sharp. Then something seemed to relax in him, and Sherlock pressed back against John with a groan, and John was lost; he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and began to thrust, hard and fast, until he knew he couldn’t hold on anymore; he came with a yell, and distantly, John was aware of Sherlock’s voice joining his own, of Sherlock’s body seizing up as he reached his climax. _God_ , half an hour ago, John hadn’t even been sure that Sherlock was capable of that, with another person at least.

He allowed himself to collapse against Sherlock’s back, his arms sliding around Sherlock’s waist.

“Christ, Sherlock. What just happened there?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?” John had the feeling that Sherlock was reaching for his usual condescending tone, but he was too breathless to have any hope of success.

**Very, very nice, boys.**

The message flashing on the screen hit John like a bucket of cold water. _Shit_. Whatever had happened just now, they were still Moriarty’s prisoners, and whatever he had planned for them, it couldn’t be good; no matter how much John—and apparently Sherlock—had enjoyed this, Moriarty would find a way to twist it. Sherlock moved away from him, and John saw that ice cold calm settle over his features once more.

“Get dressed, John.” Sherlock was already pulling his trousers on.

John could only nod. He pulled his clothing together, and began to dress as tension returned to his limbs.

**Did you find my little code, Sherlock?**

Sherlock looked at the screen as though he was bored. “Completely transparent.”

**Was it now? Well, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?**

A large number 15 appeared on the screen. Then it became a 14.

“Oh, great,” John muttered, as he attempted to fasten the few buttons that remained on his shirt.

**13, 12, 11**

Still, Sherlock seemed unperturbed. Giving John one of his little _I’m being so clever now_ smiles, he stepped up to the LCD screen and began to tap his fingers along the side. Bloody hell, how had Sherlock managed to sort out a code while they were—while they’d been—

**10, 9, 8**

“Done!” Sherlock exclaimed with a flourish.

Behind them, the door slid open, revealing a broad stretch of uninhabited countryside.

**7, 6, 5**

“Oh, shit,” said John.

**4**

“Run!” said Sherlock.

John didn’t need to be told twice. Sherlock’s hand found his, and together they bolted as their erstwhile prison exploded behind them.

* * *

  


~ *~*~  
 **This receipt confirms that**  
 _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_  
 **has paid**  
 _Mr. James Moriarty_  
 **the sum of**  
 _£5,000_  
 **for**  
 _services rendered._  
~*~*~  



End file.
